It's Meant To Be
by Grigiocuore
Summary: A ritual Sunday call, and Marlowe found herself reflecting upon her husband's strange, confusing, irreplaceable relationship with Juliet O'Hara. Canon pairings, shameless Lassiet Bromance.


_Oh my God. I've actually written something that was not only Het, but actually canon? Tomorrow will rain pink unicorns for sure. Oh well, I suppose stranger things had happened. Apart from my lousy jokes, this story is mainly a tribute to one of the most beautiful, heart-warming, touching TV Friendships I've ever seen: if it's not clear, I'm talking about Lassie and Jules. I've just watched the re-run of "Lassie did a Bad, Bad Thing", and (apart from the Slasher squeaks of delight) I loved how our O'Hara fights with all her tigress's claws for her partner. And don't make me begin with Psych Odissey and their farewell. Anyway, here we are: and let me say that I'm pretty proud of this little piece. It felt like something they could really do. Because when you found someone to make your partner, you couldn't let them go so easily. _

_But now, stop babbling and let's get started. Enjoy, and let me know what you think about it._

_PS: "Out of Sight" update is coming. Really._

**It's Meant To Be**

She had called at nine o'clock, just after the kids went to bed.

Marlowe turned off the kitchen sink, pinning the phone between ear and shoulder as she dried her hands in the towel. She didn't even have to ask who it was.

-Hi Juliet.- She greeted, closing the tapperware meatloaf for Carl's lunch.

-Oh, Marlowe, hi. I, I called for, uh, to...-

-Carlton is doing his Little Red Hood performance for Macom. He'll be down in no time.-

-Oh, sure, thanks, but I was just...-

Seven years, and she still pretended it was a sort of casual courtesy call. Marlowe grinned.

-_Yeah_, sure thing.-

In that moment a thundering rustle of leather shoes on parquet floor echoed from the stairs, and her disheveled husband all but swooped in the kitchen like world's fate depended on it.

-Ah, honey, Marlowe, the phone, it's for me. I mean, I think, I...-

-It's Juliet- she answered, shoving the cordless in his hand and kissing his nose. -I _know_. Go talk about your cop things. I'll watch America's Got Talent.-

He nodded numbly, picking up the phone and walking toward the living room with an half-wave of his hand. Assuming the smooth voice he reserved for family members and epic rants.

-O'Hara? It's Lassiter. Yeah, I know you know but...-

And he hadn't stopped since then. They had talked for hours, about _anything_. They had started with work, like always; and then somehow they had moved to novels, the latest episode of Criminal Minds, summer holidays, how difficult is sewing a damn dinosaur costume for kindergarten party. Marlowe was quite sure she had heard something about a cake recipe gone horribly wrong.

It was a tradition that started five, six months after Juliet's reassigniment: before then Marlowe supposed everything was still too raw, and they were not ready yet to let go of the back-to-back friendship they shared for seven years. Calling for no reason, exchanging e-mails would have meant that there were things the other hadn't lived on his skin; that they weren't living and eating and dancing with death together anymore.

Then Juliet started to call on Sundays, _just to check the baby girl, of course_, and Carlton began to call on Thursdays, _just to check the wedding preparations with that moron of Spencer, of course_. And before they knew it, it had become a family tradition and way past the time they were a brand-new bride and a brand-new dad, they still waited those calls with ritual accuracy.

Marlowe chuckled, pulling out of the dryer Macom's softball uniform. She had stopped long ago to be jealous of Juliet. At the beginning, _oh_, of course she had been: she had had no job, a brother tipping on the legality line and a sentence to serve in jail. And then there was that gorgeous, doe-eyed deity who moved like a beach babe and shot like a sniper, and seemed to understand Carlton's codes like she herself had never managed. Hell, she was even _funny_.

Marlowe had tried her hardest to stay polite, mercilessly monitored her fiancé, swallowed more than once the urge to punch the blond cop on her lovely nose. Repeatedly.

Then came the wedding party, and Marlowe stared at them for the first true time.

They were sitting at a corner table, sharing a piece of cake and way too many champagne glasses.

Carlton had eaten all the vanilla frosting, and had let her the creamy chocolate core she was savagely wolfing down. They weren't talking much: a word there, what seemed like a juicy gossip about one of the guests, a chuckle between silence. At some time he cast a glance to Marlowe, eyes wide like a marveled kid, and Juliet placed a hand on his arm; they stared at the other in the eye, smiling with sugar-caked lips. There had been nothing else to say.

Somehow, in that moment Marlowe understood that she had nothing to fear from detective O'Hara; and that she would always have to divide him with that blonde goddess. She didn't doubt that Carlton loved her, sure: she felt it everytime she talked about the kids' days and he laughed, everytime he kissed her and pressed her body against his. Yearning. Gratitude. Something so intense it bordered on desparation. But what he had with Juliet was, well, _different_. It was brotherhood, and hardened alliance, and the mysterious guts' thing they called "partnership"; and yet sometimes Juliet scolded Carlton exactly like Marlowe did with Lily, and he had nearly shot a nurse through tears when he had had to leave her after the miscarriage. They could have been lovers, they loved each other more than many lovers, and yet they had never been: like they had found some strange land suspended between and over every definition. Above all, they were accomplices: plotting strategies to keep everyone safe and decipher the world that had hurt both of them so much.

Marlowe could be Carlton's future; but Juliet would be the one he would share it with.

Marlowe rolled up another sock, distracted. She had always believed in true love: twin souls, instant crushes, all the cheesy romantic stuff you have to hold on tight when your lil brother is dying and you had spent all your college fund in the last round of cures. She had always believed that two persons, two souls, could find the other just because they wouldn't be whole without them; that they could be just, just _meant to be_.

She finished to fold the laundry, smiling when she heard Carlton's laugh.

She didn't knew you could also be meant to be friends.


End file.
